


Quidquid deliquisti

by victoria_p (musesfool)



Series: beggars would ride [12]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Episode Tag., F/M, Genderswap, girl!Sam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-12-03
Updated: 2008-12-03
Packaged: 2017-10-02 18:35:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/musesfool/pseuds/victoria_p
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam can't throw stones. Episode tag for 4.10.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Quidquid deliquisti

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Mousapelli for listening to my titling woes.

Dean hasn't come into the room since they checked in. He'd dropped his duffel on the desk and gone out to the car, and he's been out there ever since. Sam watches him from the window, wondering if she's given him enough space--if there's such a thing as _enough space_ after what he told her--or if she should just let him be.

She's never been any good at letting him be. She's always picked at scabs, too, always felt the need to peel the hard red bruise away to reveal soft pink skin beneath.

She pulls on her hoodie, pockets the room key, and closes the door quietly, trying to decide on an approach that won't send him running away.

"I know you fucked her," she says, coming up behind Dean and putting her arms around him. She leans her cheek against his back, trying to ignore the way he tenses at her touch. It's probably not the best place to start, but it's a small transgression in the scheme of things, one she can easily forgive.

"Sam--"

"I'm not mad." The funny thing is, she's really not. Once--before she lost him, before he came back--she would have been. She'd have been angry and jealous (_insecure_), and she'd have taken it out on him in cold silences and venomous words. But now.... "If she gave you something I couldn't--" She sighs and shakes her head, the worn leather of his jacket (_Dad's jacket_) soft against her cheek. "I wish I could." She doesn't say, I wish you would let me. She goes up on her tiptoes, presses a kiss to the nape of his neck above the collar of his jacket, and breathes in the scent of him--old leather, sweat, and hair gel. _Home._ Tries to let the gesture say what words can't.

"Sam," he says again, and his voice is hoarse. She knows she shouldn't push. He's already opened up more than she ever expected. Any more is liable to break him into pieces even she can't put back together.

"You don't have to feel guilty." About anything, she wants to say, wants to let him know that she forgives him, if that's what he needs, though she doesn't think he's done anything that needs forgiving.

He pushes his way out of her embrace, and she feels the late autumn chill through the thin cotton of her sweatshirt. "Go inside, Sammy."

"Dean--"

"Gimme a few minutes."

She sighs again and leaves him in the parking lot, staring up at the stars, hands shoved in his pockets and shoulders hunched up around his ears. He looks sad and lost, and it breaks her heart all over again.

She falls asleep before he comes in, dreams of trying to run to him and being stuck in place while the hellhounds tear him apart, of watching the world end in fire and blood while she tries to scream, to warn him, and can't.

She wakes up shaking and crying, not sure if she's seeing the future or the past.

"It's okay, Sammy." He wraps his arms around her and she buries her face against his chest, lets the sound of his heartbeat soothe her. "I'm right here. I gotcha."

Her breathing evens out and she coaxes him into lying down beside her, curls up into the heat of his body, comforting in the chill of the motel room. She doesn't move, even though his amulet is digging into her cheek. The discomfort makes it real.

She's still sleepy and warm, and she raises her face to kiss him, hoping he'll push her back against the thin motel pillows and make her forget her nightmares (and his own) with his mouth and his hands and his dick. But he doesn't. He pulls away, and when she raises her eyes to his, he looks away.

"You haven't touched me since you saw me use my," she waves her hand, "psychic power thingy." She doesn't mean for it to sound like an accusation, but it does.

"It's not that," he says immediately, but he still won't meet her gaze.

"Yeah," she says, pushing her way out of his arms. She sits up, swings her legs over the side of the bed, puts her back to him. "It is."

The mattress shifts as he moves behind her, and then she can feel the warmth of his chest against her back, the whisper-light brush of his hand on her neck. She closes her eyes and leans into the touch.

"Brat. Not everything is about you, Sammy."

She turns her head, feels the soft, rough scrape of his stubble against her cheek. "Yeah, it is," she repeats, smiling.

He gives her a small smile in return and she captures his mouth in another kiss. This time, he lets her. She licks at the soft edge of his sad grin, erasing the boundaries between them. She pulls away long enough to turn, press him back to the pillows and climb on top.

"Is it because of the angels?" she says after sucking a red mark onto his jaw. He snorts. "Don't laugh. I've seen the way Castiel looks at you."

"Don't." He stiffens, tries to push her away but she won't let him. She feels stupid for not figuring it out sooner.

She shifts so she can look him right in the eye. "It was _hell_, Dean. You held out as long as you could, but you were in _hell_. You can't be condemned for what you did there." He turns his face away, but she grabs his chin, makes him look at her. "Maybe Uriel condemns you, but he's a dick." She shrugs one shoulder, feigning nonchalance. "Anna didn't. Castiel doesn't. God doesn't." She leans in closer. "_I_ don't."

"Sam--"

"I don't, Dean. I can't." She lets him go, sits back on his thighs. "I would have opened the gates of hell to get you out, and be damned to the consequences. I'd have taken your place if they'd let me." She shakes her head, ignoring the wounded look on his face. "I fucked a demon while you were gone." She doesn't say anything about demon blood and angels who want to kill her. Maybe he understands better than she gave him credit for. If only he'd return the favor. "I can't cast any stones."

"Even if--" He licks his lips, unsure in a way that makes her heart ache. "Sam, what we're doing--" He puts a hand on her hip, thumb rubbing at the small bit of bare skin between her tank top and the waist of her boxers, and she feels a tiny bit of triumph amid her own guilt.

"What we do is nobody's goddamn business," she says, hating that he's still bringing up something she considered settled ten years ago, that some part of him will always feel guilty about it when it's the best thing in her life. "Don't even start that shit again, Dean, 'cause it is way too late for that. If you want to feel guilty about something, I can give you a list, but this will never, ever be on it." She punctuates her declaration with a hard kiss, and he finally relaxes beneath her, sighing into her mouth.

She pulls her tank top up over her head and tosses it to the end of the bed, then rolls off him long enough to strip off her boxers and get him out of his clothes. Then she kneels over him and strokes his dick until he's as ready as she is.

"Been so empty without you inside me," she whispers when she sinks down onto him, taking a moment to revel in the way he fills her up. She rolls her hips slowly, wanting to hold him inside her, where it's safe, where it's just him and her and no one can come between them. She fits her hand over the mark on his arm and refuses to think about how Castiel saved him when she couldn't, and how Anna comforted him when she couldn't, because she's the one here now, and it's her name he's whispering like a prayer.

She kisses him desperately, greedily, letting all her need and fear bleed through in a way she can't with words. He holds her tight while she fucks him, the way her breasts rub against his chest contributing to the slow build of heat in her veins, so good she has close her eyes to savor it. He reaches between them to tease her clit, licks at the sweat beading on her collarbone, his tongue warm and wet against her skin.

"Come on," she says, pleading, thrusts speeding up as she gets close, cheap motel bed squeaking in protest. "Please, Dean."

"I'll get you there, baby." His voice is rough and confident, though his eyes are still unguarded, his expression vulnerable. "I always do."

She laughs, breathless, triumphant, and there it is, wave after wave of fierce, hot pleasure rolling through her. She clings to him as she comes, her rock and anchor so she doesn't float away. She's still riding it out when he comes with a low growl she licks off his tongue like a vow.

They collapse sideways onto the messy sheets, still tangled together, and he falls asleep while she's cleaning up. She hopes he doesn't dream.

She lays her head on the pillow next to his and runs a hand through his sweaty hair. She whispers, "I forgive you," before she goes back to sleep herself. She knows it's not near enough, not yet anyway (maybe not ever), but she'll keep saying it--with her body and her mouth--until he forgives himself.

end

~*~

**Author's Note:**

> quidquid deliquisti means "whatever sins or faults you have committed" and is part of the prayer used during the (old school) anointing of the sick.


End file.
